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Madeleine was immediately interested. ‘Is she the artist who painted your portrait?’

‘She is. And they’re returning to their house in Brook Street. Mrs Wolfe has accepted a commission to paint La Bambolina, that Italian singer drawing the crowds at Covent Garden Theatre.’

The carriage drew up outside the Lockhart mansion in Grosvenor Street and Madeleine and Dot were handed out by Mr Shilton. ‘Thank you, Sir, for suggesting I accompany you on this inspection.’ She bobbed a quick curtsey, then looked up at him and said, ‘You really do promise that Billy will not be sent to that place?’

Ferdinand Shilton brought her gloved hand to his lips and said, ‘I do indeed. Goodbye, Miss Rose.’ He watched the two women walk down the front kitchen steps to enter as unobtrusively as they had left.

Immediately, they were aware they had returned to a house in suppressed ferment. As Madeleine emerged from the kitchen, she was accosted by her cousin Henrietta, her face blotched with crying, tears still coursing down her cheeks. ‘Where have you been?’ she asked angrily. ‘We thought you were practising for your recital at Mama’s soirée!’ She then put her hands to her face and stamped her foot. ‘Oh, never mind. I hope there is no soirée now. Mama has told me we will not invite Mr Paget.’ Her voice ended on a wail.

Madeleine removed her bonnet and pelisse and took her cousin’s hand. ‘But why, Hen? He came with us to Vauxhall and seemed a most pleasant young man. And Aunt Lucinda appeared to warm to him.’

Blowing her nose heartily on her muslin handkerchief, Miss Lockhart recovered a little of her composure. ‘Well, she’s decided my happiness and his have to be sacrificed on the anvil of her social ambition. She’s invited the Marquess of Kintbury, who is as old as Methuselah and on the hunt for a second wife, having lost his first and a newborn heir to a fever.’ She shuddered.

Madeleine said reasonably, ‘But, Hen, your mama cannot make you do anything you don’t care to do.’

‘No, but she can stop me doing something I really want to do. You don’t know how lucky you are, Maddie, to have no parents telling you what to do!’ A growing sense of outrage suffused Henrietta’s cheeks.

Madeleine answered softly, ‘I think I’d rather have parents telling me what to do than be orphaned with no one to care what I do.’ But Miss Lockhart was nursing her sense of grievance and did not seem to hear.

Madeleine climbed the stairs to the drawing room to practise her Clementi piece which demanded a high level of skill and musicality; excitement over Billy had distracted her and she knew she had not spent enough time on it.

* * *

Ferdinand Shilton walked into his grand entrance hall in Brook Street expecting the usual expensive hush of a well-run household. Instead, he heard in the distance Mrs Moffat, his cook, haranguing an unseen person in a voice filled with outrage and punctuated by fruity expletives. He had never known this imperturbable woman so moved to ire. He thought he would ignore it for the moment. He had more pressing things on his mind and cloistered himself in his library, firmly closing the door.

So troubled was he by his own thoughts that Ferdy Shilton sank into his favourite chair without even bothering to pour himself a glass of brandy. What strange malady ailed him? Why, when he was about to marry a most suitable bride, was it Miss Rose’s remarkable grey eyes he longed to see, full of emotion and care for the world. Why did his heart beat faster when she was near? Why was it her musical voice he thrilled to hear? He hated this perturbation of spirit and disliked being shaken from his comfortable life of civility and pleasure. How had he allowed it to happen?

Mr Shilton leapt to his feet and swore. How he longed to return to the tranquillity of his forgotten world, now seemingly lost forever. To his consternation, he was even nurturing the thought that he should do something worthwhile with his vaunted fortune. Perhaps his beautiful dower house could be put to better use to ease the suffering of others?

He slammed his hand into the wall. Devil take the girl! It wasn’t just his body and his heart she had affected, she had even inveigled herself into his brain. He no longer recognised himself. And now he was also responsible for an infant who threatened all kinds of gossip and embarrassment. Thank the heavens the Wolfes would soon be in Town and he could cast his problems into their lap and see what suggestions they came up with.

The thought calmed his spirit, but then a knock at the library door brought another ache for his head. Mrs Moffat stood there, her cheeks red from the stove or from emotion, he could not tell. Before he could say a word, she blurted out, ‘I need to know, Sir, who is master in this house – you, or are we to take orders from Miss Payton, even before you’ve married her?’

He had walked towards his cook and said in some puzzlement, ‘Why, of course, until we are married, then I am master in this house. What troubles you, Mrs Moffat? I assure you all your positions are safe.’

His cook seemed slightly consoled. ‘Then we can ignore her directives until then?’

‘What directives could you be thinking of?’

‘She was passing the house with her maid when she saw Mabel and Billy in the front area by the kitchen steps. Mabel had the child on her hip and was showing him the sky with the lovely scudding clouds when Miss Payton peered over the railings and told her that we spoil the child. Giving into his demands to be held and played with. Also that I was feeding him wrong!’ Her voice rose at this calumny. ‘As if she knows it all – and me and Mabel having been with kiddies all our lives!’

Ferdinand Shilton was surprised at this news but also keen to reassure his precious cook. ‘You are feeding him entirely appropriately, I am sure, Mrs Moffat, and I think that Billy deserves every kindness. His unhappy situation is not of his own making and I am grateful for Mabel’s and your care of him.’

Mrs Moffat curtsied in recognition, then smiled. ‘Billy’s a right little gentleman, after all, and deserves the best.’ And with that she was gone.

Mr Shilton’s spirits sank once more. It was obvious all his servants had taken Billy to their hearts as the master’s little son. This was yet another disruptive circumstance in which that disconcerting young woman, Miss Rose, was so closely implicated.

He poured himself his well-deserved brandy and, gazing into its golden aromatic depths, settled back into his chair. Why did everything troubling start with Miss Rose and end with Miss Rose? What toils did she weave? With the best will in the world, she had shaken up his emotions and disrupted his days, when all he had ever wished was for his felicitous life to continue with the added advantage of an amenable wife. But even Miss Payton was turning out to be less complaisant than he had hoped. Nothing, it seemed, was going to plan.

Ferdy took a great draft of liquor, then was startled by the noisy entry into the room of Lord Flambard, the other uninvited disrupter of his peace.

‘Oh Ferdy! Some brandy, good.’ He helped himself to a glass and flung himself into the chair opposite his friend’s.

‘You look discomposed, Max. What’s the trouble?’ Ferdy’s voice was weary.

‘I’ve just come from White’s. There’s a French cove going round the clubs asking for me. Of course, being exemplars of discretion, no one would say a thing, especially not to one of Boney’s henchmen.’

Ferdy surveyed his old friend over the rim of his glass. He really did look ridiculously rakish, with his dark dishevelled hair, his arrogant, mocking manner and unnecessarily exaggerated clothes. ‘Who is this man and why is he in pursuit of you, may I ask?’